Only In the Mind of Sherlock
by Dr4m4g33k
Summary: [Would This Make Sense]. In which Sherlock proposes to John over a dead body... eventually. Memories, "Mystery" and a Mangled corpse. Established relationship, non-graphic slash
1. Chapter 1

Only In the Mind of Sherlock ch.1

A/N: I've had weddings on the brain (probably because my own is quickly approaching (!) ), and I figured, in some crazy upside-down world where Sherlock would ever even think to ask John to marry him, he just *would*do so over a body. So here is that story, as it is in my head.

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Sherlock remembered the very first time _marriage_ had been introduced to his vast and complex mind. He had been seven, and Mycroft, fourteen when some second-cousin-thrice-removed invited the Holmes family to her wedding. The invitation that was sent was on an expensive French paper, and the raised lettering had real gold leaf on it. Sherlock had been more interested in deducing what type of calligraphy pen nub had been used to write their address on the envelope before it occurred to him to ask what they were being invited to. He knew Mummy would try to feed him some drivel about "soul mates" and "love" and other such nonsense—so he'd asked Mycroft instead.

"What does marriage _mean,_ exactly?"

"Nowadays? It's a legal agreement that everything belonging to two people is shared property, mostly. It used to mean that a couple's… well, that God was giving them permission to have children." Mycroft knew better than to think that, even as young as he was, Sherlock didn't already know what he meant, but that was no reason to be crude in his explanation. "It still means that to a number of people, I suppose."

Sherlock's impossibly pale and knowing eyes narrowed as he processed this information. At that point, his mind palace was more of a crowded, disorganized townhouse, so it took a little longer than it really should have. After a few minutes of silence, he looked back at his brother. "And that's why it has to be done in a church?"

"It doesn't have to be in a church. Quite a lot of people get married in churches, but it can also be done by a registrar."

"Oh." Sherlock processed this information as well. "Why would someone do that? Why can't they just share their things? People get bored of each other after a while, don't they?"

Mycroft's lips tightened. As he was wont to do, Sherlock was showing far more insight than was good for him. Mycroft spent the better part of the next two hours trying to explain to his little brother that yes, people sometimes get bored of one another's company, but people get married anyway, and yes, sometimes it is for reasons other than what Mummy would call "love" and no, it is not a good idea to tell Mummy that their cousin is "stupid" or that the marriage will fall apart within six months no matter what you deduced from the envelope, because that's the way it is, Sherlock ,now let it go.

Years later, after Sherlock had deleted large portions of his days at the manor, he held on to this memory, because on some level it still baffled him. Why did people put themselves through all these legal proceedings when more than half of the relationships failed anyway? Even when he tried to take sentiment into consideration, he still couldn't understand it. You could love someone, and share your life and your possessions and your finances with them without having a piece of paper from God or Government (or both, or whatever you preferred) saying you were allowed to. Yes, there were the various insurance and medical visitation benefits and what-have-you, but if that was the only thing you could claim out of the arrangement, then the whole system seemed a bit antiquated. Sherlock smugly thought to himself that at least his marriage to The Work had never required any bloody registrar. He would never understand what would drive someone to want to attach themselves, legally or otherwise, to another person for what would supposedly be the rest of their natural life.

And then came John Watson.

After more than three years together, (not counting the Great Hiatus, as they euphemistically referred to it) John still turned Sherlock's mind upside down with frightening regularity. He was forever surprising the great detective, and that was a large part of what made him fall in love with the man in the first place. That, and his heart so frequently worn on his sleeve, which only made him all the more endearing. And his smile. And his steady gun hand. And his… _ahem_, well, Sherlock could go on about his partner's qualities for quite a long time, having spent a great many hours meticulously cataloguing them for storage in his Mind Palace. Suffice to say, these two loved each other very much and now he was beginning to understand what all the fuss about marriage was about. He couldn't image life without his handsome army doctor, and knew that no matter what, they would be together until the bitter end. But John was a man who appreciated gestures, especially sentimental ones (so long as they came from Sherlock, of course), and the more Sherlock thought about it, the more appeal calling John _husband _became.

It was a perfectly ordinary night, when Sherlock was laying, prayer-in-repose on the sofa, listening to John slowly peck away at his keyboard, that he made up his mind. The detective opened one eye and swiveled it over to John. His tongue was poked between his lips, at the corner of his mouth as he worked on his blog. After a few moments, he stopped typing and rested his chin in the palm of his left hand. Sherlock could just barely see John's stubby, weathered digits cradling his cheek from behind his laptop's screen. He envisioned a simple gold band encircling his ring finger, glinting brightly in the soft light of their flat. Just like that, he knew he was going to ask John Watson to marry him. Sherlock closed his eye again and smiled to himself. Now the only question was how… and he never could resist a touch of the dramatic.


	2. Chapter 2

Only in the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 2

A/N: I had a whole little plotline for this story, and don't you know it—the moment I get the first chapter out, it just falls right out of my head. Well, here's how I think the next part went, anyway. Sorry it's a short one, just this just seemed like a good stopping point. We'll get to the real fun in the next chapter!

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Two weeks later, Sherlock sat down in front of his microscope in the early morning, well before he expected John to wake up. Normally, he would have lain in bed with his partner, until something forced the two of them up, but today he was beside himself with excitement. He was a talented actor, and he was sure he could pull his plan off magnificently, but there was no point in tempting fate. Too much proximity to his beloved doctor, and he might end up just blurting the question out, and spoiling all his hard work.

He smiled to himself. Thankfully, nearly everyone who had a role in his scheme also had a soft spot for romance, so they were all just as eager as he was for this to go smoothly. Besides, he actually did have an experiment on—something to help absorb his nervous excitement while the plan came together. He turned his attentions to the slide and began making notes while he waited for John to rouse himself naturally.

Nearly two hours later, A rumpled-looking blogger ambled out of the bedroom. He put the kettle on for the first cuppa of the day, and pressed a slightly groggy kiss to Sherlock's forehead while he waited for it to boil.

"You were up early today."

"I had to check on the samples from the Wheats case. The cultures from their garden are fascinating."

"I can't believe he was stupid enough to poison his wife with foxglove from their own flower bed."

"Most people are stupid, John; Wheats only slightly more so than average. Besides, I'm more interested in what he's been putting in the soil. The plants are growing in a most fascinating pattern."

John smiled fondly, and shook his head. He was sure whatever they had been using for fertilizer was interesting to Sherlock, but he was just as happy not to pursue that line of questioning. He fixed them each a cup of tea, then moved over to the stove to start breakfast. With Sherlock just off a case, there was a pretty good chance of him eating—with a little persuasion, of course.

Behind John's back, Sherlock looked up and studied him closely. He was in a good mood—an excellent sign. Of course, with no hours at the surgery scheduled for today or tomorrow, and having just closed a case the previous night, he had no reason not to be cheerful. Today, John's mind would be awash with plans for blogging, tea and telly. All the same, the detective figured by the end of the night, he would be happy for those plans to have been spoiled.

_Bleed-do-doop!_ Sherlock's mobile chirped.

_Ah, speak of the devil._

John frowned slightly as he spooned eggs onto two plates, already laden with toast. He set one dish down in front of Sherlock.

"I don't care how badly Lestrade wants our statements, they can wait until after breakfast!" he said sternly, as his sweetheart checked the message.

"It's not about our statements. He has a case for us." Thankfully, John trusted him enough not to check the message himself. The text glowed in his eyes for just a moment more before he pocketed his phone again. So far, so good.

_This is your nine o'clock alarm! Good luck, Sherlock. I'll see you later.__ -GL_

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Greg put his phone back on his desk, and waited for the next signal. He turned his last conversation with the odd detective over in his head for the hundredth time. He had been stunned speechless at what the man had asked of him, but after thinking about it for a time, he realized how unsurprising it actually was. For all his scoffing at _sentiment_, Sherlock certainly did have a knack for it. Greg supposed if you were to ask him, he would have said something about knowing how the average idiot thinks, and how useful it is to The Work, et cetera. Be that as it may, Sherlock wore his love for John Watson like a badge of honor, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for him—even get a little sentimental. So, when the self-proclaimed sociopath (_Ha! Just try to hold on to that image after tonight, Sherlock!_) had asked him to help in his proposal—Greg just couldn't refuse. It was good to see how much the doctor had changed him, in little ways, and definitely for the better.

With his feet up on his desk, he looked over the file that had been dropped off by the elder Holmes that morning. A full itinerary for the day, a backup plan in case something went wrong with the first one, and a backup plan for the backup plan. He'd never seen anything so airtight—but then, it wasn't like Sherlock to do anything by halves, especially when it came to John. Plus, when it was so important to the detective that he had voluntarily involved Mycroft in the proceedings… well, the British Government was bound to make sure that everything ran smoothly.

The DI stood up, and strode purposefully out the front door of New Scotland Yard, into the rare sunshine of London. He smiled to himself.

_Even London's fog took the day off today. I guess it's true that the world loves lovers, after all._


	3. Chapter 3

Only In the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 3

A/N: Wow! I did not expect this to get so many followers so quickly! Thank you guys, you give me all the warm fuzzies! Please allow me to give aforementioned warm fuzzies back to you.

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The pair of them headed down the stairs to catch a cab. Maybe it was John's imagination, but Sherlock seemed… off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was almost as if Sherlock had already solved the case, he had so much energy, but at the same time, his movements were minutely slower than usual. John had to pause at the bottom of the stairs while the front door was opened, when normally he would have been tripping over himself to keep up with the whirlwind of a detective. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her flat and stepped out before they made it outside, and she had a look on her face that John hadn't seen since the day he moved in. Her smile was bright, and she seemed extraordinarily chuffed to see them together. Her eyes met John's and her expression turned a little bit misty.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" The doctor moved toward his landlady with concern.

Mrs. Hudson took a hurried step backward waving him off. "Oh, yes, dear, yes I'm fine. Just allergies you know, make me look all teary." She rubbed at her leaking eyes, still grinning at them. "I just wanted to tell you boys to have a good day and don't get into too much trouble." By the end of her sentence, her voice was high-pitched and strained, and she ducked back into her flat before John could question her further. He followed Sherlock outside, any analyzing thoughts toward him long gone.

"What do you think that was about?" John muttered, climbing into their cab

"No idea. Could be that black mold she was so worried about from 221C."

"Sherlock, come on now, you can't really believe that was allergies? She's clearly worked up about… something." When that was met with no response, he continued. "You didn't deduce anything else that might have upset her?"

"I don't think she was upset, John, but it's hardly relevant, anyway. We've got a case and we don't have time for Mrs. Hudson's sentiment."

John heaved a weary sigh. He'd just have to check up on her later, he supposed. Far be it for Sherlock to be distracted by anything when there was a good murder to be had.

"Fine. Where's this one, then?"

"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens."

"Brixton?" John's heart rate doubled. "You mean there's _another_ murder there?" Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. The last time a crime had taken Sherlock down memory lane had been the Carl Powers case. Best case scenario, it was a horrible coincidence, which would still mean there was yet another murderer loose in London; Worst case scenario, it was someone deliberately trying to recreate their first case together… _Oh, please, God, no… not him again, not Moriarty… _

Logically, John knew the man was dead, but that certainly hadn't stopped Sherlock.

"Well that's just it." The detective was talking, bringing John back to the present, "There's no murder. Not in Brixton, anyway. Just something that Greg wants us to have a look at—but he says there's no body."

John was not as put at ease by this as he would have liked. Even if there was no murder there, he disliked the lingering feeling that he was being toyed with. Still, Sherlock was always saying it was a fool's errand to make deductions with incomplete data. That thought would keep the panic to a minimum at least until they made it to the scene, and they could find out what they were dealing with.

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The cab dropped them off in nearly the exact same spot as that January night so long ago. John half expected Sherlock to ask if he'd gotten anything wrong as they approached the crime scene. Blessedly, it didn't look like they'd need to enter the same house they'd found the body of Jennifer Wilson in. In fact, it looked like the police tape was only cordoning off a very small area just outside of it. Before they reached the area however, a sleek black car pulled up alongside them. The window to the back seat was rolled down, and Not-Anthea's face appeared. She lifted her eyes away from her blackberry long enough to address them.

"Mr. Holmes says he'd like a word."

John raised his eyebrow at her. "And he didn't collect us before we got in the cab?"

Not-Anthea just smiled. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and muttered in John's ear. "He was probably distracted by the dessert tray going by and missed us." John smiled, but turned his attention back to Mycroft's assistant.

"Well, it'll have to wait, we're on a case."

"He says it's urgent and…" She glanced between them "You're not needed, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and put a hand on John's shoulder. He gave a reassuring squeeze, before moving to get in the vehicle.

"I know exactly what Mycroft wants. It'll be better to get it over with, or he'll be most insufferable until I see him. It would be far too distracting."

"But we're a hundred yards away from the case! How can you go dashing off?!"

"Oh, I'm sure the case will be quite simple, and I won't take long with my dear brother. Just go see what you can find out and I'll meet up with you."

"Fine, but I don't want to be dragged back here six hours from now because you need to sniff the bloody keyhole or something."

Sherlock smiled, taking the assistant's seat, and shutting the door behind him. He leaned out the car window to place a brief kiss on his partner's lips.

"Oh, I doubt we'll be back here tonight." His grin widened at John's confusion, and disappeared behind the rising tinted glass window.

The car slunk away, and John felt he was left looking like a fool. Greg and Donovan had definitely spotted him now, and had probably seen Sherlock just _bloody take off again._ He heaved a long-suffering sigh and headed toward the DI. As he got closer, he noticed the area that had been roped off was just the mailbox outside of the house.

"John!" Lestrade called, sounding eerily chipper.

"Hello, Greg. What's all this about?" He asked, indicating the mailbox. Now that he was looking, Greg and Sally were the only ones here. One squad car, one small area sectioned with crime scene tape, but nothing else. No forensics, no nothing. Even Anderson was missing.

Lestrade was biting his lip, trying and failing to keep from grinning like a fool. Even Sally had a smile for him. "Why don't you have a look?" She said, handing John a pair of forensic gloves, and nodding to the mailbox. The little flag indicating outgoing mail was raised. John raised his eyebrows, and wondered briefly what had gotten into these two. Still, even if Sherlock was a bit careless, he knew the Yarders would never lead him into something harmful. He pulled the gloves on and opened the mailbox, with just a hint of trepidation. Inside there was a pink envelope of heavy, luxurious paper. He pulled it out into the sunlight, and turned it over in his hands. The front side bore the name "John Watson" in Sherlock's familiar, swishy handwriting.

John looked warily back to Greg and Sally, both of whom were mouthing at him "Open it!" What on earth was going on here? He extracted the letter (on thankfully white paper) and read it with his head spinning.

_My Dearest John_

_ I have something very special planned for today. I'm sending you on a little adventure to see how much you've learned. I don't expect the same level of deduction as I would use, and I promise you won't need to identify any tobacco ash. I know you can do it, and I think you'll be pleased with where the day will take you. You can contact me, I'll have my mobile, but I won't give you any hints! Have fun._

_All My Love,_

_Sherlock_


	4. Chapter 4

Only in the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 4

A/N: Finally! Finally we're getting to the fun of it! I know, I'm terrible at plot structure, so you've already plodded through three set-up chapters of mine. Thank you all for your patience!

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John's jaw went slack as he finished reading the letter. He turned it over and over in his hands, searching for some clue that this was a joke or… that Sherlock was somehow doing this against his will. John wracked his brain for anything that seemed unusual about Sherlock recently…

"_Well, yeah, this whole bloody morning has been unusual."_ He thought to himself, sternly. The ex-army doctor rounded on Greg, who was now grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"You've got to be kidding me." John sighed.

"Not even a little, mate. " Greg clapped him on the shoulder "And I'll have you know he's been working on this for weeks. I've never seen him put so much effort into something before."

Now, John Watson knew the man he lived with; the man he loved. Despite how he made himself out to be, Sherlock had a soft heart. Some days John could barely breathe for the amount of affection Sherlock heaped on him, desperate to make him understand how much he cared (and it broke John's heart that this far in, some part of the mad detective still thought that eventually, John would just up and leave). That being said, Sherlock's affection was expressed in little ways. Cups of tea when John came home late, piling the hoarded orange shock blankets on him when he fell asleep on the sofa, refraining from loudly deducing the ends of the television shows John was trying to watch. He never, not once, had ever done anything like this. This prelude suggested something huge and elaborate, and while that was certainly Sherlock's style from time to time, he'd always been a bit… restrained when it came to his feelings for his blogger—particularly in front of the Yarders they worked with. So why now?

John had an inkling as to what was going on; he was no Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't a complete blind idiot, either. His heart leapt into his throat at the thought. It was never something he would have expected of his mate, but he would be so glad to be proven wrong.

"Okay…" John looked at the letter again. '_A little adventure…' _"So, what am I supposed to do now, he didn't leave me any clues!" John looked at the house they'd examined Jennifer Wilson in. It was in foreclosure now, and nobody had bought it since she'd been found. There was a little twist of guilt in his stomach that the memory of her murder was now being used as part of a game. Then again, Sherlock had never been one much for tact.

"He said to tell you," Greg rifled through his pockets for his mobile, and clicked the screen on, looking at an older text message. "Mycroft isn't coming for you, so you can skip that step." The DI looked back at him, and gave a little shrug. "No idea what that means, but he said you would."

John closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Obviously, Sherlock was recreating their first case together. He played through that night in his mind. He remembered Sherlock taking off after seeing the body and… Then Mycroft had picked him up for their little clandestine chat. _'Mycroft isn't coming for you, so you can skip that step.' _Alright… After that he'd ended up at the flat, but—No, they'd just come from the flat. If Sherlock wanted him back home (at least this early) he would have started the game there. Something in John's heart knew that wasn't the right place. So where had they gone next?

His eyes snapped open again. Pocketing the letter, John started heading back toward the main road.

"Where are you going?!" Greg called at his retreating back.

"Lunch!"

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John climbed out of the cab in front of Angelo's, but the driver took off before he could pay the fare. John was confused for a minute, until he realized that was probably Sherlock's doing—he had already shown he had planned this out well in advance.

Angelo's was supposed to be closed at this time of day—he normally opened for lunch at about twelve-thirty, and it wasn't yet a quarter-past ten. Yet still, John was not a bit surprised to see the huge bear of an owner burst through his front door, and mercilessly pump his hand, beaming all the time.

"Doctor Watson! So good to see you again, Sherlock told me you'd be coming, please—sit down! Make yourself comfortable. I've got your usual table, be back in a tic!" He boomed.

John was steered inside and seated at the same table before the window. With the exception of the one he was sitting at, all the tables in the dining room still had their chairs stacked up on them, and were stripped of candles, tablecloths, and seasoning shakers.

Angelo came back a moment later with a plate under a silver domed cover. John didn't have to argue that he hadn't yet ordered—he knew this wasn't food, and wasn't feeling hungry anyway, with the butterflies in his stomach. The man opened the dish with a flourish and as large a grin as John had ever seen on him. Sure enough, there was another pink envelope resting on the white china plate. John didn't hesitate to open it this time, tearing at the envelope like his life depended on its contents. In a way, he supposed it did. His eyes scanned the next letter, still written out by his beloved.

_Be sure to thank Angelo for both of us. He and Mrs. Hudson were the first to see that we belonged together. I didn't even know why I felt so strongly that you should join me here, not then. It was a long time later before I realized that I had been drawn to you from the very beginning. I will be forever grateful that I can say "Dangerous" and you still come running. _

John smiled down at the letter in his hand, and it wasn't until he heard the scraping of a chair beside him that he realized Angelo was still there. The chef placed a hand on his shoulder amicably.

"You were the first person he'd ever brought here, did you know that?"

John was a little taken aback. He shook his head. "No. I didn't. Was I really?"

"Yeah, really." Angelo scraped his palm over the whiskers on his jaw. "He'd come by before you came around, o'course. Sometimes for a case, sometimes just to people watch. Once or twice he even ate." He smiled at John. "I've made a lot o' mistakes in my life, John—I don' pretend to have all the answers. But I've never seen Sherlock look at anyone the way he looks at you."

John looked down at the spotless plate, smiling for all he was worth. After a few minutes of silence, Angelo cleared his throat. "He, er… he gave me another message for you, too." He pulled an order pad from the pocket of his apron. "He says, 'Mind you get a good cabbie.'"

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One more sans-GPS-enabled-laptop cab ride later, John found himself outside Roland-Kerr Further Education College. The place where the life of the serial killer, Frank Hope, (known to the papers later as the Killer Cabbie) ended at the hands of an "unknown gunman." John smiled—the person who had killed Hope had never been found, but he had the distinct impression that a certain DI hadn't really been looking, either (despite Lestrade hinting rather strongly that he knew who it had been.) The gate was closed, and padlocked, but wedged between the slats was a now-familiar bright pink envelope. John sat on the curb, and looked down at the third letter.

_I knew the night my life was saved by someone with nerves of steel, I had made a good choice. I had a new friend, and flatmate, and a partner willing to be by my side, no matter how much of an idiot I'd been. I'm only sorry I didn't kiss you that very night. I suppose I'll just have to make up for lost time going forward. _

John let the sun warm his weathered face, as he closed his eyes and mulled over Sherlock's words. He wasn't convinced that he would have received a come-on that night half as well as when it had acutally happened. Sherlock turned John's world upside down that night. Looking back on it, now… he wouldn't have changed a thing.

The good doctor stayed lost in his thoughts for some time before he heard the soft click of expensive shoes on the pavement.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

Only in the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 5

A/N: Wow, I… what a following! I'm really, truly humbled there's been so much interest in my dinky little story here, and I'm glad you guys are just as big of suckers for fluffy, sickly-sweet Johnlock as I am.

By the by, I don't have a Beta! So if anyone's interested in taking up the job, feel free to message me!

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John looked up from his spot on the pavement, and found himself staring into the pointed face of Holmes-the-elder. Even among the mixed feelings he had of the man, he gave Mycroft a warm smile—he had to have been part of this whole scheme of Sherlock's. He was, however surprised to find the friendly expression returned to him. There was no trace of the Ice Man before him; only a beaming older brother looking upon the best thing that had ever happened to his sibling.

"Hello, Mycroft." John said, standing and extending his hand.

The British Government shook his hand, and leaned on his ever-present brolly. He took a pocket watch from the depths of his jacket, glanced at it, and closed it with a click.

"Are we on a schedule?" John asked, raising an eyebrow

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Mycroft replied. "But thankfully, it is a somewhat forgiving itinerary."

"I didn't get the impression I was being timed."

"Oh, no, John. Nothing of the sort. Sherlock merely asked that we be… conscientious. "

"I see." John stowed the latest note away, setting it alongside its brothers in his pocket. "So, you helped Sherlock put all this together, then?"

"I did."

"Sorry, but… I got the impression this wasn't really your area. No offense."

Mycroft waved his apology away. "None taken. Normally you're quite right, but recently I've had… Let's call it a change of heart, shall we? "He got a faraway look in his eyes for a moment, as if fondly caressing a dear memory. "I can't deny the world of good you seem to have done my brother. I'm very glad to see him so..." For the first time that John had seen, he seemed to struggle for words. "… very happy. And of course, Mummy is just delighted. She worried so about him before you came along. She has been very keen to meet you. I doubt Sherlock will be able to put it off for much longer."

John's stomach gave a nervous lurch. Oh, god, Mummy Holmes. Despite all her various invitations, John had never been to Sherlock's childhood home. He was either away on business, a case, or with his sister for any major events or holidays. Sherlock had flatly refused to leave London proper for anything else, so the opportunity had never arisen for him to be introduced to the woman who birthed the two cleverest men he'd ever known. He desperately hoped that particular meeting was left off whatever agenda had been arranged for him today.

As John tied his own mind and stomach in knots, Mycroft's favored mode of transportation, the mysterious black car, pulled up on the curb. The door was opened, and Mycroft slid in, making room for John near the open door. He took his place in the empty seat and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Shall I ask where we're going?"

Mycroft smiled, and was silent—a perfect impression of his voluptuous assistant. John smiled and rolled his eyes. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the secretive habits of Holmeses." He muttered.

"People rarely do."

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When the car stopped, Mycroft stayed in place, and the door was opened by his chauffer. "My staff will be your accompaniment going forward. They will stay parked here, and you can rejoin the car in your own time."

"I thought I was meant to be deducing where to go?"

"You are. This place was the only one Sherlock meant not for you to deduce. You weren't here willingly the first time you visited, he doubted you garnered enough information to lead you back." He caught the slightly irritated look on John's face. "He means no disrespect, John. He's merely showing you that he learned from you as well as you learned from him. In his case, a bit of tactfulness. Though, given that he brought you here at all, he clearly has more to learn on that front."

"Where are we, then?"

The question was again met with pointed silence. Mycroft gestured to the still-open car door. "When you work this one out, simply let my alert my staff to where you wish to go. I believe the cabs were only a dramatic touch for the portion pertaining to your first encounter with Sherlock."

John climbed out, and looked up at a mostly unfamiliar building. Only when he approached the heavy double-doors and the smell of chlorine assaulted his nose did he realize what was going on. Last time he was here, he had knocked out before he'd entered, and left in a smaller cubicle off to the side. He had also been covered in Semtex. The lights around the empty pool drew pleasant willowy patterns in the reflection of the water on the walls and ceiling. It was so peaceful, he could almost forget that he'd nearly died there. Another horrible lurch of his stomach, and the sense of being manipulated returned. He was only somewhat calmed by the sight of a pink envelope resting on the lower dive board. He turned this one over with a little more care before opening it—just in case. Once again, there was nothing but a letter to be found within.

_John,_

_Please forgive me for bringing you here. I know it is not one of our more pleasant times together. Even so, it was definitive for us, and I know you would agree on that, at least. Last time we were here, I experienced many firsts. The first time someone so blatantly put their life on the line for me. (Thank you again for that… I should never stop thanking you.) The first (and last) time I've ever doubted you, (I'm sorry, again for that. Much the same, I should never stop apologizing to you.) and the first time I realized just how much I stood to lose in you. The moment I was able to get that vest off of you… I've never experienced relief like that before, and I doubt I ever will again. It was my first inkling at how much you meant (still mean) to me. I hope if we are ever here again, today is the memory you will keep with you of this place. _

John smiled despite himself. Well, that night was certainly definitive, he had to agree. Sherlock had looked so lost, so pained when he'd first stepped out, and he would never forget that look. When he'd grabbed Moriarty by the neck, he had every intention of dying for his flatmate. And he'd do it again without hesitation. Perhaps it wasn't such an awful memory, after all. The trill of his mobile interrupted his musings.

_Couldn't get us back into Buckingham Palace, sorry. Sheet's still in the wash. Have I ever told you what your wing in my Mind Palace looks like? –SH_

"_Well," _he thought to himself. _"So much for not giving me hints."_ Sherlock had, in fact, mentioned to him what the wing labeled "John Watson" looked like. Only once, and it had been whispered reverently against his skin in the inky blackness of their flat after sunset…

He climbed back into the sleek car, waiting around the corner for him as promised. Rapping on the divider between the driver and passenger compartments, he gave the address.

"221B Baker Street, please."


	6. Chapter 6

Only In the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 6

A/N: So. I have spent more time than I care to say on Omegle specifically for doing Johnlock RPs. And some of those have been terrible, but far and away they've been amazing, and I've been able to draw quite a bit of inspiration from them. I may even take a few that are ongoing and clean them up to post here. So, if you've been on Omegle, and you recognize something that's said here, or in the future—Hi, again!

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John climbed out of the car, and didn't even glace back at it as he made his way up the front steps. Everything was eerily silent as he shut the front door behind him. Climbing up the steps, he finally made out the soft clink of china coming from their flat, and a soft "ooh!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" John smiled, as he came through the sitting room, and into the kitchen. "You shouldn't overfill your teacup."

Their beloved landlady was mopping up the spilled beverage from the counter, moving aside the two mugs she had, evidently, just prepared. The tea was still steaming, and the kettle hadn't yet been put back in place. "So, was it Sherlock or Mycroft that told you I was coming?"

She smiled warmly back at him. "Mycroft. Apparently Sherlock has his hands full with something else." She handed him one of the teas, in his own RAMC mug.

"Ta." He took a sip, thinking (not for the first time) how much she did for the two of them for someone who wasn't their housekeeper. He extended his free hand, gesturing for Mrs. Hudson to take his favorite armchair, while he sank into Sherlock's. She moved the Union Jack pillow off to the side before settling in with a knowing smile.

"I imagine you have something for me?" John said after a few beats of comfortable silence.

Mrs. Hudson peered at him over her tea, and pointed at the mantle. There, pinned under the skull, was another pink envelope. John stood, and fetched it, tearing it open. "I'll be able to paper my old bedroom with these before the day is out." He told her.

_John,_

_I have dozens upon dozens of memories of you and of us, together. All catalogued in a wing of my mind palace laid out exactly like our own 221B. I could go on for hours about our life together here, but the woman sitting before you insisted on having her say._

_She is, in her way, one of the shrewdest people I've met. And one of the very few whose judgment I trust completely. I have a sense that she would be able to articulate my feelings of you even better than I. It seemed only fair that I gave her the opportunity._

John snorted a laugh, folding the letter into his jacket. He looked up at Mrs. Hudson, who had finished her tea in silence as he read. He sunk back down into his (_Sherlock's_, his mind corrected) chair. Opting for silence, he gazed at her expectantly until she'd decided she was ready to speak.

"I'm not going to say I told you so." She said, leaning against the left arm of the chair.

"But you're thinking it quite a lot."

"Well, yes. " She put her mug down beside her. "I made an assumption, when I first met you, not a prediction. I don't hold to that sort of thing." She shook her finger at him sternly, as if he'd been about to suggest she had some sort of precognitive powers. "But it doesn't take a genius to see the way he looked at you, even then."

She stood, and took his cup, nodding for him to follow her to the kitchen while she washed up.

"I don't think anyone who knew him even a little bit was fooled by his little 'sociopath' claim," she continued, shaking her head. "but so few people bothered to get close enough to see it." Mrs. Hudson finished with the cups, and set them aside, going silent for a few minutes. When she spoke again, her voice was low and serious.

"Did I ever tell you about my late husband?"

John was surprised by her questioned. And surprised even further when he realized, after living at Baker Street for over six years, the answer was 'no'. He thought hard about the few snippets of conversations they'd had, where she mentioned him in passing. "My husband was just the same," or "My Gerald never liked oranges, too many pips." She spoke of him endearingly, but… other than the fact that Sherlock had sealed the man's execution charge himself, that was all he knew. He shook his head slowly, and Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Gerald Hudson was handsome young man. American. Stationed in Florida during the war. I met him while I was on holiday there, and we fell in love. We were married, and moved back to London together not long after. "She heaved a great sigh, heavy and bittersweet. "Gerald was a soldier at heart, and he hated living in a country not of his birth, but he did it for me. We were married for almost thirty years before he died."

John thought for a moment, doing the math in his head. "Wait… No, I thought he was executed in 2008?"

She nodded again. "He was. But my husband died ten years before that. In the late 90's, something happened to my Gerald. I never did find out what, but he was never the same. He became hurtful and violent." She rubbed the outside of her arm absently, as if remember a bruise that was no longer there. "We went back to Florida to see his family, and he got into an argument with his brother. Harry had seen Gerald and I arguing, and confronted him, and…" She trailed off. "Well, Sherlock could tell you the rest." She waved a hand as to dispel the black mood. "My point is, that for thirty years, he and I were happy, and in love, and even though it went sour in the end, I couldn't bear to see Sherlock so lonely. He's such a good man, and I could never understand why he let his head get in the way of his heart." She looked up at John and smiled. "And then you arrived. You bring out the best in him, and he in you. You complete each other, even if you drive each other a bit mad. You are perfect together, and it does my old heart good to see that there is still such love in the world."

Without thinking about it, John stepped forward and embraced Mrs. Hudson, squeezing her as tightly as he dared. She wound her arms around his back, and patted gently. He could hear her sniffle a bit, and when he let go, she was brushing a tear from her eye.

"Now then," She said, clearing her throat. "You'd better be moving along, dear. " She pulled a piece of paper from out of her pocket, scrawled with Sherlock's handwriting. "Almost at the end," she read, "The end for some, but the beginning for us. A friend will be waiting."


	7. Chapter 7

Only in the Mind of Sherlock: Ch. 7

A/N: I've been filling my head with delicious angst and smut (and sometimes angsty smut) and it's made it a bit difficult to come back and work on my fluffy little story. Anyway, after some palate cleansing, we're off again!

Also, what is up with my punctuation and sentence structure? It's like I've got the market cornered on ellipses and parentheses.

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Not for the first time, John seriously doubted the wisdom of Sherlock's decision. He watched London roll by from the back seat of the borrowed black car on his way to St. Bart's. He and Sherlock had been back to the hospital enough times that it no longer held the nausea-inducing sense of dread that it had after Sherlock's fall, but that's not what John was worried about right now.

He was headed to Bart's to drop into either the lab or the morgue. From Sherlock's clue, he was fairly certain he meant the lab, where they had first met, but the "end for some" bit, led him to believe that might not be the case. Plus the only friend who had any reason to be waiting there was Molly, and the morgue was definitely more her dominion than the lab. (Technically, the lab was hers as well, but Sherlock spent more time in it than she did, practically.) Even the idea of going to the hospital morgue on what was Sherlock's version of a romantic tour-of-London wasn't the issue. It was Molly.

Doctor Molly Hooper, long-suffering head of the St. Bart's morgue staff had once-upon-a-time, carried a torch for the lanky detective. She, like John in the early years at Baker Street, had gone on dates for the show of it, all the while pining for the most closed-off bachelor in London. John shot men for him. Molly provided him with corpses, or pieces thereof. John patched him up with a physician's hands; Molly offered up a fully-equipped lab. Eventually, John was the one who broke through. Even Sherlock wasn't sure if that was in part because he had no interest in women, or if it was just John himself that did it. Either way, while there had not been any direct competition between the two doctors, John always felt a twinge of guilt around Molly. When she first learned of their relationship, (after catching them snogging in front of the microscope Sherlock had been working with) she had silently turned on heel and left the lab. John hadn't seen her for a few weeks after John finally did run into her again, she'd apologized for her behavior, and embraced him.

"I'm happy for you. For both of you. Really, I am." She'd said when she pulled away. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were still a little pained.

Three years on, Molly had been one of their best friends, and their greatest supporters. On one memorable occasion, when one of the hospital orderlies had muttered a homophobic slur at the couple within earshot of her, she'd rounded on them with an impassioned rage neither of them thought her capable of. She'd cut the man down to size so thoroughly that at the end, when he'd slunk away, Sherlock's mouth was actually hanging open. All the same; including her in all this while referencing a time that she'd been so enamored with the detective seemed a touch disrespectful.

John came out of his reverie when he found himself standing before the door of the laboratory, without being able to remember walking there—or getting out of the car, for that matter. He pushed open the door and found the lab empty. John cast his eyes around the room, checking every surface for a flash of pink, but found none.

"Close!" came a voice from behind him. John had been searching in vain the floor under the microscope Sherlock favored, and bumped his head on the worktop when he started at hearing Molly's encouragement. She giggled, and smiled sympathetically as John rubbed the now painful spot on the back of his skull. "Not the room you're looking for, I'm afraid."

"You know what I'm looking for, then?"

Molly nodded, and held open the door that led them into the morgue. She guided John into the frigid room, and gestured to—John groaned inwardly. A body, post-autopsy was laid out on her slab. Molly had apparently just finished up with him, since her various tools were still out on a tray near the man's feet. Hanging from his big toe, alongside the standard tag, was a pink envelope attached to a string.

"A little unconventional, I thought, but that's Sherlock for you." Molly said, removing her tools to have them sterilized.

"Unconventional is one word for it." John replied, yanking the envelope from its string and ripping it open.

_This room was the very last one I was in before I knew you, before both our lives changed forever. I remember trying to be sure you knew the worst of me—in retrospect, I suppose I didn't even scratch the surface of my undesirable qualities—and still you came to meet me the next day. By this time you've seen me at my worst, and you're still here. I don't understand why you've stayed when no one else has, why you say "brilliant" when others say "Freak", but I will be forever grateful that you do. I love you, John Watson. You are a mystery I will never solve, and I have never been happier. Now I have one more question to ask you._

John swallowed around a lump in his throat, and pocketed the letter. He looked up at Molly through wetness that threatened to spill over his eyes. She smiled.

"A mystery he will never solve," she said "That's quite a compliment, coming from Sherlock."

"How did—"

"You move your lips when you read, did you know?" She said. John had to laugh. Molly really was much smarter than anyone, especially Sherlock, gave her credit for. It was easy to forget her medical degree under the soft smiles and starry eyes.

"I hope he didn't bother you while you were working." John said. For the first time, he looked down at the corpse on the slab. Male, mid-fifties, white-collar businessman. He realized this man had been the victim of the "disgustingly simple" case Sherlock had solved the day before. It really had been an easy one. Jilted mistress, bashed over the head with a blunt object when he made it clear he was never going to leave his wife. The cricket bat turned murder weapon had shown up in a nearby skip.

"Not at all. And even if he had, for you two I wouldn't mind." She moved to zip his body bag back up before she returned the body to the drawer. Molly caught his eye meaningfully. "I hope you know that I really am happy for the two of you. I count you both as very good friends."

"I know. I just—" Molly held up her hand to silence him.

"No. Whatever I had for Sherlock… I know it could never have matched what you have with him. You are two halves of a whole. Soul mates, if you believe in that sort of thing."

A few beats of silence, then John asked. "Do you? Believe in soul mates, I mean."

She smiled. "Yes. I do." Her phone pinged away, and she checked the message, before reading it out.

"I couldn't think of anything to say that didn't reference the most awful thing I've ever done." She winced, and shook her head. "That's all he says. I told him not to go with the roof. I thought it was very tactless."

"Yeah, he's been doing that a lot today." He stepped forward and kissed Molly's cheek amicably. "It's alright. It's been a long time since that day."

"It's still not on. He really is an idiot sometimes."

"Yes. I know."


End file.
